


Outside of Stories

by Tysolna



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, Gen, M/M, Meaning of Life, slight mysticism, taking time outs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-30
Updated: 2013-07-30
Packaged: 2017-12-21 21:19:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/905059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tysolna/pseuds/Tysolna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say that there are an infinite number of universes. Each universe is slightly different from the one we call our own.<br/>But throughout all the universes, there are a few constants.<br/>-------<br/>Medium-sized AU. What if the events of "A Study in Pink" had happened differently?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Outside of Stories

**Author's Note:**

> At the end of May, Mirabilelectu gave me a Fic War prompt: "I would like an AU where John doesn't reach Sherlock in time to stop him from taking the pill at the end of ASiP. How that happens and what the outcome is I leave up to you."  
> It made my plot bunnies sing. The result may not be entirely following the prompt. Sorry. :)  
> ETA: Thanks go to jes6ica for going over it with a proof-loofah! <3

They say that there are an infinite number of universes.

Hypothetically.

Each universe is slightly different from the one we call our own. Very slightly, so that we almost don't notice. There are millions of people who would not care whether a sack of rice does or does not fall over on the other side of the planet.

But the deviations grow, like a reflection caught between two mirrors, until there are universes where nothing we know or understand remains.

Throughout all the universes, however, there are a few constants.

 

~o~

 

“What happened this time?”

“Mike stayed in for lunch. You never went out. You chose a different park to limp through. There was no body in the mortuary for me that day. I was working on an experiment at home. Does it matter? Whatever the reason, we never met that day.”

“Oh.”

There is silence for what would be a few heartbeats, if they had hearts that beat.

“So...”

“I solved the case. Obviously.”

The other chuckles softly. “Obviously.”

Another pause.

“Did you take the pill, then?”

There is a flash of memory. A deserted college, an empty, cold room, two men caught up in a game of high stakes. Two men raising their hands to their mouths. An innocent-looking pill in a trembling hand. A life wagered on being right.

He swallows the pill. For a moment, there is certainty, triumph, elation – then there is pain, defeat, resignation, and darkness.

“You idiot”, a voice sighs.

There is a feeling of embarrassment. “I was sure I was right. I couldn't know that both pills were poison, or that Hope had been an escapologist in his younger days and was still able to do the fake-swallowing trick.”

“That's beside the point, and you know it. You were an idiot for taking the pill in the first place.”

“What about you? What happened to you?”

A shrug. “Nothing happened to me, and nothing continued to happen. I had to move out of London, not enough money. Ended up in Glasgow, working in a NHS walk-in clinic. Was run over by a car one winter when it skidded on an icy road. I was 62.”

“Yes, I had the feeling I'd been waiting a long while for you this time around.”

“If I'd known you were waiting I'd have tried to get here sooner.”

“Don't you dare.”

 

~o~

 

An infinite number of worlds, like game boards stacked upon one another. An infinite number of games. In a place to rest between turns, the players might sit back, re-group, take stock of the game so far, before diving back onto the board, forgetting that they are only playing a game, the game of living.

 

~o~

 

“That was a real gun, then.”

“I knew it was real. I know a real gun when I see one.”

“Yeah, but where'd a cabbie get a gun?”

“He probably received it from the same source that supplied the poison.”

A nod of agreement.

There is a hint of a fireplace, a suggestion of comfortable chairs, an idea of walls, ceiling, floor. The two players have been here often enough to imprint some of their preferences onto this place, make it comfortable, claim it as their own.

“That was actually rather dramatic, the way you threw yourself in front of me, shooting Hope at the same time.”

There is a grin in the answering voice. “I've always wanted to do that James Bond thing, jumping sideways, gun blazing.”

“Mmm. Bad luck it didn't work out the way it does in James Bond films.”

“Oh come on, it was a good try.”

“And that way Hope got both of us.”

“I got him too, remember. Three dead bodies for the police, and one serial killer who won't kill again.”

“As I said, rather dramatic.”

“Hurt like a mother though. I hate being shot.”

“Quite.”

 

~o~

 

The game does not always turn out well. For every get-out-of-jail-free card, life will deal you a bad hand. Then, all you want to do is murder the game and skewer the board to the wall with a knife.

 

~o~

 

“You were late.”

“I was in the wrong sodding building!”

“Nevertheless, you were late.”

“And you had to go off without telling anyone what was going on. Always too clever for your own good.”

The atmosphere is tense, the fire burning hotly, fuelled by the anger in the room.

“Hope was right there. I couldn't tell you or he'd have left and the chance to get him would be gone.”

“Bugger that! I had to watch you die!”

“There was a reasonable chance that I picked the right bottle. Besides, you barely even knew me.”

“Fuck you.”

They spend the rest of the time out in silence.

  
~o~

 

Infinite worlds turn. The game is played again and again. Worlds change, rules are created, discarded, kept.

 

~o~

 

Sometimes, they arrive at the same time.

“That was a good long one, wasn't it?” one of them says with satisfaction.

The other hums, a deep, rumbling sound, and smiles affectionately.

Age does not enter here, where bodies are left at the door and only the core – the soul, if you will – remains. Nevertheless, they stretch, feeling time fall away from them and leaving their outward appearance to reflect their inner selves.

They are glowing.

“I'm still surprised we made it that far for once. Considering all those other end games.”

“Worth every minute though.”

“I'm glad you think so.”

“You _know_ I think so. Even with your experiments and the bees and the crusts on the dishes because even after all those years you never did do the washing up.”

They chuckle, and remember their life together. The cases, the danger and excitement, time spent apart, but always returning to one another.

“I still think you were crazy, though, keeping that damn pill. You know it was very likely poison, not a keepsake.”

“Oh but it was. A memento of our first case together. The first time you saved my life.”

“Sentiment?”

He shrugs. “Sentiment. Besides, I know you kept the bullet shell, after you shot Hope.”

“I picked it up so they wouldn't be able to trace my gun.”

“And then you kept it.”

“And then I kept it.” He smiles. “Sentiment.”

They sit in the glow of the gently crackling fire.

“You would probably like to know that I was wrong.”

“What?”

“I was wrong. I had chosen the wrong bottle, back then.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because when I found you... that morning, when you hadn't woken up... When you would never wake up again...”

“You didn't!”

He nods. “I did.”

“You idiot!”

They laugh.

 

~o~

 

Time passes. Time stands still. The fire in the fireplace flickers eternally, casting light and shadow over the two men. Somewhere else, a world is waiting.

They look at each other, grinning.

“Shall we?”

“Oh God yes.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks go to Mirabilelectu for giving me a great prompt, and to Antidiogenes for making me put arse on chair and fingers on keyboard.  
> The idea of life as a game and sitting out between turns I snagged from Diane Duane's Star Trek novel, "Wounded Sky" (and it's also become something of a philosophy of mine).  
> No major religions were harmed in the writing of this story.


End file.
